Duramarth dropped down from his mare the last few hundred yards and walked cautiously alongside Ün, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. It had been over four years since the prospector had fled the clutches of this insidious place, running from an angry mob, escaping through the Black Crack and barely making it out alive. He swore never to return. Yet here he was, not only breaking oaths but standing defiantly, a mere stone's throw from The Mountain’s Throat.
The Grandmaster whispered something in Sindarin to his faithful companion. Then flinched as one of the horns from the horse’s shaffron nearly landed a blow as the stubborn old beast shook her head angrily in protest.
The old man grabbed his even older friend firmly by the snout and kissed her on the nose. Reluctantly, the horse conceded. She turned and snarled, trotting off behind a white curtain of snow.
As he approached the small pond under the northern face of the mountain, Duramarth drew Thlinghâdh from its sheath. The grandmaster felt a warm tingling sensation in his fingers as he clutched the blade.
The next chapter in his story lay here. He would find answers beneath the Misty Mountains, through the dark and twisted tunnels of Goblin-town.
